Limbus
by TheFutilitarian
Summary: Genre: Fantasy AU. Pairing: Miranda/Andy. Summary: What lies beyond? What lies beneath? What makes us who we are?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **_I do not have ownership of anything to do with Devil Wears Prada but the content of this story is entirely my own._

**A/N: **_This work is purely fiction. Any events and characters depicted in this story are not and cannot be based on real events (for many obvious reasons!) but may, to a degree, reflect some ideas portrayed in other published works of fiction. __If you prefer not to explore certain concepts or if you are looking for an easy read, this may not be the right story, however, I hope you give it a shot regardless._

_Thanks to my wonderful girlfriend for helping fill my current beta gap. _

_You always make everything so much more than it would be without you._

* * *

"**Dying is like getting audited by the IRS - something that only happens to other people ... until it happens to you."** – Jerome P. Crabb

* * *

1985

The blare of the cell phone struggles to cut a swath through tendrils of fog, the irresistible siren servants of the land of dreams reluctant to relinquish their cobweb of seduction. Jerkily rubbing her bleary eyes with her right hand, her left one automatically corrects the stubborn Ford Taurus which once again veers off its path. Eyelids at half mast as soon as she lowers her hand, the routine motion of raising the paper cup to her lips yields only bitter dregs of long cold espresso.

"Fuck."

The insistent pealing of the phone continues to pierce the eerie stillness of the darkness around her. When her lower eyelid begins to twitch insistently, she concedes defeat, a sharp staccato "What?" the only acknowledgement spared for the hapless caller.

"Are you there yet?"

"You have three seconds. I know even _you_ don't expect an answer to such an inane question."

"I felt the baby kick."

The twitch of the eyelid becomes a steady throb, Miranda's jaw involuntarily clenching as her teeth grind together. "You and I both know that's impossible. What's this really about?"

"I don't think I can do this."

"You can and you will."

"But –"

"_But I don't have sex without protection_. You lost any right to a _**but**_ the moment those eight words failed to leave your lips." The hitch in the caller's breath, the ragged sighs, the choked sob… all waft a wave of rancid guilt into Miranda's mouth. "Look, I am going to be there in two days, okay? We'll get through this. Together. I promise."

"I'm scared, Mimi."

Again the movement is involuntary, the stern set of the jaw relaxing into a smile which barely turns up the corners of her lips. "Do I need to sit on you again like I did in 7th grade?"

The burst of manic laughter is sodden with tears, "I am pretty sure I can take you this time."

"I wouldn't bet on it."

"And no-one ever bets against Miriam Princhek, do they?"

The hint of uncustomary elusiveness startles Miranda – part pride, part sheer sarcasm, part something else she can't quite put her finger on. "Me sitting on top of you is about to become the least of your concerns."

"Of course, how could I forget that we're not good enough? I do apologise, _Ms Priestly_."

"We're not doing this, Katya. Not now."

"You have something better to do?"

"No. But what I _can_ do is end this call at any moment."

"Okay, I'm sorry. I really am." An uncomfortable silence drags on for several heartbeats before the solemnly whispered, "For everything..."

The tendrils of fog suddenly become much more alluring, more insistent, Miranda's destination dramatically changing from the longed for world of sleep to the repugnant one of fear. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't do this, Miriam. I won't."

"Then we'll discuss it when I get there. If you really want to," an uncoordinated sweep of a hand over her face masks the grimace of distaste which distorts her features momentarily, "keep this baby, we'll talk about… options."

"No, we won't, we both know that. When you get here it'll be just like the old days. And then bam, the Miriam effect will make this baby just another problem which simply… disappears."

"Katya…"

"It doesn't matter anyway. It's too late."

The bleakness in her sister's voice traverses the states; bleeds across the airwaves until each tiny, dense particle clogs Miranda's every pore, restricting breath. "What have you done?"

"Maybe you should… turn around."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"The guy, he told me that I'll still look pretty… after. It's why I didn't jump or slit my wrists… I wanted you to remember me as I was… like I just went to sleep… like I'm just sleeping… Then maybe…" The hesitant voice trails off momentarily and Miranda's blood stills for the longest, most terrifying five heartbeats of her life. All breath rushes out in one long exhalation as the thready tone resumes. "I wish I'd tasted snowflakes one more time… had ice cream instead… wasn't the same though…"

"I am calling the hospital, someone will be there in 20 minutes, and I want you to stay on the line, okay? Whatever you do, keep talking. Do you remember when father brought Gus home for the first time on Christmas Day? How happy you were, how he wouldn't leave your side? Can you believe that was 1965? Twenty years ago but I still remember it like it was yesterday."

"Can't call the hospital if you are talking to me."

The concrete logic in the faltering cadence is what finally breaks her, stinging moisture blurring Miranda's already overtired eyes. "Then you are going to pick up the phone, do you hear me? I'll just be two minutes. Then I am going to call you and you're going to pick up the phone. You _will_ pick up that damned phone. Do you hear me?"

"I told you it's too late, Miriam."

"It's not."

"They won't find me in time."

"Goddamnit, Katya, please… please tell me where you are… I can fix this…whatever it takes… I'll make it work…"

"I am not a picture to correct, Miriam. Not a skirt that simply requires the matching of a perfect belt. Your whole existence, your world, is colour - - life. Mine? Mine is only ever shades of grey. I thought maybe… but that won't ever change now, don't you see?"

"I'll bring you colour, all of them, any one you want."

"It doesn't work that way. You can't infuse colour where none is meant to be."

One mournful tone bleeds into another.

"Katya… Katya…? No, not right now… come on…work, damn it… FUCK!"

The garish beeping screams shrilly in her ear before it's suddenly cut off. The horror of the abrupt silence stills her for so long that when the solution sluggishly swims to the forefront of her mind, she explodes into action. Reaching across and underneath the passenger seat, Miranda fumbles for the spare battery she's always kept there, hand encountering the tips of her Prada work shoes, the worn crease on a box of tissues , a sheaf of paper...

_Pull over._

Ignoring her common sense she contorts herself even further, stretching with fingertips which frantically scramble over every newly found object.

_It'll just be for a second. _

A different inner voice whispers in her ear: one whose dulcet tones are impossible to ignore, unfeasible to resist. She unbuckles the seatbelt, arching up and backwards to search the darkness whose yawning maw obstinately refuses to give up its only worthwhile secret.

_You need a light._

Caught in a snare of rashness, misplaced confidence, and most of all – emotion, her hand twitches momentarily, then lifts from its position on the wheel to reach for the tiny bit of plastic up above. The bright illumination stings her eyes anew; Miranda reflexively blinking to bring once vague shapes into stark relief.

There, wedged almost fully underneath the seat.

Even as her eyes regard the battery triumphantly, an insistent tugging pulls at the edges of her consciousness.

_You didn't reach the switch._

The time in which it takes to reach the right - - the only possible conclusion, there's but a second left, her gaze snapping round to absorb the inevitable scene unfolding just beyond her windshield. Her vision is instantly impeded by the blinding glare of twin lights; the blare of the horn screams an insistent warning she can't possibly react to; the blurry outline of shapes in the other car blends together into one incomprehensible, macabre, jumble.

The split second_ Oh shit_ is followed by the screeching groan of metal, a rapid forward motion, a burst of utterly excruciating pain…

And then… just welcome darkness.


	2. Chapter 1

"**Death, in itself, is nothing; but we fear, to be we know not what, we know not where**." – John Dryden

* * *

The ascent to wakefulness was sluggish, akin to the rise from the bottom of the lake into which Miranda used to fearlessly cannonball amidst the searing summer heat. The first half hearted blink yielded an impression of walls, a desk, cheap looking vinyl chairs. The second one filled in the colour, or what passed for colour in this room: whites; beiges; pale greys. The third one surrendered details, allowing a semblance of a picture to develop into a tiny waiting room, a shabby looking space that needed a refit somewhere circa 1969.

Groaning, Miranda sat up; face automatically twisting in a grimace of pain from having been slumped in a hard-back chair for an indeterminable period of time. The rest of the upward motion, a slow rise to her feet, confirmed the strange reality – her body wasn't experiencing any hint of discomfort. The sudden vision of an oncoming vehicle flashed in front of her so clearly that she flung her arms up instinctively, recoiling backwards as far as her body would allow. The result was an ungainly tumble, her head smashing off the solid wall behind her, chair absorbing her awkward slide back down.

Blinking rapidly to clear the image, she rubbed the growing lump on the back of her head, dredging her memory for an appointment which would explain her current location. It took a minute to realise that not only had she no memory of ever getting here but that a matter of far greater concern was that the bump that she'd been vigorously rubbing, and the anticipated pain, were simply just… not there.

Rising shakily to her feet, she walked over to the barren desk; its surface littered with a myriad of cracks and gouges and yet somehow utterly pristine. A further inspection revealed rows of drawers in the same state, equally empty of any contents. Her gaze skittered to take in the length of and breadth of the entire room, comprehension finally dawning on what seemed so glaringly out of place.

The room contained no window, nor a door.

Every horror movie scenario imaginable flitted through her head, several fresh ones coalescing on the back of those known. Summoning false bravado, she spat out, "Whoever you are you've just made the biggest mistake of your life. I don't have any money. And if you are playing some sick game, you might as well just kill me right now because when I get out…"

"You are going to make me pay?"

Startled, Miranda spun around so fast her legs tangled with those of the desk chair, another clumsy trip resulting in an awkward sprawl across its surface. A quick righting of her posture placed her facing a nondescript, middle aged, slender man who proceeded to neatly set out a folder in front of him, a curt flick of a wrist sending a chair screeching along the floor from the other side of the room. Timing perfect, it ground to a halt just as he lowered himself to sitting position. "Now…"

Shock temporarily immobilising Miranda, her jaw hung slackly in a silent _Oh_.

"Ms Priestly… or should I say Ms Princhek, first of all–"

"Impressive. Care to share your secret?" Finally finding her tongue, Miranda queried the most pressing matter with a cursory nod towards the chair that the man now occupied.

"Not particularly." Sighing as he fiddled with the wiry round spectacles before removing them, he folded them with a methodical grace. "If you don't mind me being honest, I have to tell you that this is my least favourite part."

"Of what?"

"Death, of course." His measured up and down examination somehow pinched his lips a little tighter. "There's the _Oooh_ and _Aaah_ and the inevitable _I don't believe you_. And then the weeping and wailing, quite often followed by the throwing and scratching…"

"What did you say?" The thunderous, pulsating roar in her head prevented any digestion of his statement. She must have misheard. It was the only possible–

"Death… dead… the opposite of alive, Ms Priestly. I am certain that I shouldn't need to jog your memory, but nevertheless, please allow me to do so. A car travelling on a dark night, on a winding road, at 60 miles an hour, encounters another car, coming in the opposite direction, travelling roughly at the same speed. One of the drivers does not deign it of import to be steering the vehicle and furthermore is not even wearing a seatbelt. Shall I go on or can you deduce the only plausible conclusion to this rather explicit set of circumstances?"

"This is - - no." Leaping to her feet, Miranda measured the length of the room at a frantic pace, her brain spinning the scenario over and over in her head; a flopping gasping fish out of water. "No, just no. You expect me to believe that this is what - - Heaven? Hell?" Her hand flailing to encompass their surroundings, Miranda snorted, "Well, I suppose with this décor..."

"Ah yes, please do allow me to apologise that the accommodation doesn't meet your lofty standards, Ms Priestly." His lips disappeared almost entirely inward. "However we do have other pressing matters. We were already backed up beforehand but there was also unfortunate seismic activity down_ there_ tonight, and now we are unbelievably behind. So please, take a seat and allow me to process you as quickly as possible so that we can all get on with… well, quite frankly, the rest of our lives."

"Oh, rest of our _lives_? Well, why didn't you just say so earlier…?"

"I do understand that this is an awkward situation, Ms Priestly, but there is really no need for sarcasm. Now please, take a seat, we have a lot of paperwork to complete before you head to _Processing_."

"You just said you were _Processing_."

"No, I said I was processing you. This is Admissions. Do pay attention."

"You have departments?"

"Why wouldn't we? Are you aware of how many people die each year? What, you think there's just some big gate which…" Scanning Miranda's expression, he paused mid sentence, "Oh… oh, you still believe in that down there? I see. I keep expecting things to change."

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Me? Well, let me think, the last time I clearly remember was around 1,000 years ago. Only because I had to process a particularly vicious serial killer, truly nasty piece of work he was. Before that the memory is hazy, most of us can't, and are not required, to keep more than 750 years in our head, I am slightly better than the rest." Sitting up a little straighter after the pronouncement, his specks once again adorned his beak-like nose. "But please, back to business. Can I confirm…?"

"It'll be faster if I do this myself."

"Fine. Please pop that through the letterbox when you are done. And do remember where you are, Ms Priestly. We'll know if you are lying. Oh, and in case there's _any_ doubt, we _do_ frown on that here."

Brusquely grabbing the folder in front of her, Miranda allowed her gaze to dance across the first page that the flipping of the file revealed. "Am I expected to sign this in blood or…"

The clanging sound of a pen dropping on the desk drew her gaze just long enough that when she raised it, she only encountered a once more vacant room and a newly fixed box occupying a chest-high square of space on the nearest wall. Shrugging her shoulders she allowed her mind to settle on the task of filling in familiar mundane details: names, date of birth, height, weight, siblings… Her heart clenched at the unwelcome reminder, eyes prickling insistently.

Katya.

Launching upwards as if propelled by a spring, she pounded on the wall, "Hey… you… Hello…"

"Ms Priestly, must I restrain you so you're not loud enough to wake the dead?" His disembodied voice floated from behind her.

Confronting him again, she whispered, "My sister… she…" A lone tear spilling over, Miranda clenched her fists so hard her nails pierced the skin, "Before I died… I mean the reason…"

"Yes, we are aware of this. Your sister is also in _Admissions_."

"Then she's here…" Another tear spilled over despite Miranda's gargantuan effort to reign in her despair at this confirmation. "Can I…?"

"I am afraid not." For the first time emotion darkened the blank stare in front of her. "She's in a different… division."

"What's going to happen to her? I need to know... Please." Her hoarse voice broke on a word she's grown entirely unaccustomed to in the last five years. "I'll do anything…" The words reverberated back, reminding her of the exact same phrase which hadn't been enough to change things earlier.

"I _am_ truly sorry, Ms Priestly. Segregation allows departments to handle matters in a speedier manner. Even if I was in possession of concrete facts, I am not at liberty to tell you. Not until you've been taken through _Processing_ yourself and I am afraid once you've been informed of your… destination, you're taken there immediately."

"I am never going to see her again, am I?"

The hue deepened a little further. "Just fill out the form, Ms Priestly. Please. We really need the room."

Vanishing without a trace again, he left Miranda scratching out trivial details which constituted Miriam Princhek aka Miranda Priestly, the ink dissolving in those places where even her iron will could not hold back the sporadic slide of tears.

Countless sheets of paper later, she walked three paces to drop the folder into the box, sinking against the wall, thoughts swirling; as she, without any cohesion.

It didn't take long.

A whooshing noise sounded, the box disappearing into thin air, with it an outline of a door burning into the faded beige of the wall opposite where Miranda crouched. Cracking open in one smooth motion, the gaping exit revealed a much taller, burlier man, who appraised Miranda with a swift sharp gaze. "I'd prefer no trouble, Ms Priestly."

"What exactly is it you expect me to do?"

"Run. The human spirit is indomitable… but I am sure I don't need to tell you."

"I can't imagine what you mean."

"Even as we speak, you're measuring the distance to the door, wondering if you can squeeze between my legs on the account that I have almost a foot on you. You reckon on the element of surprise, failing that… that your speed will beat my own. Once clear of me, you'll scoot left, take three steps, lose your balance, and fall into the _Pit of Nothing_. Just a friendly warning, hours in there will feel like days, and days far more like months. It's going to drive you crazy. Trust me. This plan will end up being very unpleasant for you and only tiresome for me."

"You can't know any of that."

"I can if I can read your mind." The toothy grin that wreathed his handsome features turned him into a poster boy for self-confidence.

"Passable attempt but I am not an imbecile," both uttered at exactly the same time. "How did you…?" "Stop it…" "I said stop it." Frustration at the parroted words, perfectly in tandem with her own, clamped her mouth shut.

"I can do this all day, Ms Priestly. You'll tire far quicker than I. I've done this for as long as I can remember."

"As long as you can remember - the irony appears to be lost on you."

"While you may not consider…"

Not waiting to hear what he had to say, Miranda sprung slightly upwards, immediately launching into a haphazard slide and roll along the floor. Just barely avoiding his flailing hands as she cleared the door, she flung herself to the right, using the palm of her hand to propel herself forward in a flurry of motion. Off balance, she made it several steps before the ground gave way beneath her, her stomach squelching up into her vertebrae with the sudden sharp sensation of plummeting. Reflexively she shut her eyes, her hands blindly flailing for something solid to halt her fall, encountering nothing but air as her body persisted in its downward motion.

"Unbelievable! Why is it you attempt this EVERY time?"

The sounds of impatient exclamations faded as Miranda fell, until eventually there was only suffocating silence, save for her brain's frenzied screams about the likelihood of imminent and painful impact.

Not till what seemed at least five minutes later, during which she continued to persist in this unnatural freefall state, did she concede that the man had likely been all too accurate in his description. Tentatively peering through half cracked eyelids, she saw only an unending wall of black, her body both falling and, as yet, suspended. The action of raising her hand to hold it millimetres from her eyes yielded not so much as a glimmer of a shape.

"So…you come here often?"

This disembodied, smugly chipper voice was a surprising and unwelcome intrusion. Stiffening, she tried to push herself upwards, several grunts later acknowledging defeat.

"Yeah, if I was you I'd pretty much lie still. You just get here? If so, Sol will come get you out in a couple of days. Meanwhile, try to enjoy the scenery and peace and quiet."

"Visit regularly?"

"Yeah, it's like my home away from home. You have any brothers, Miranda? Wait, what am I saying, of course you don't. Let me tell you, having one is a pain in the ass."

"W-who are you? How do you know my name?"

"Well, I sort of know everything that goes on around here. Problem is… he does too. And sometimes he's just that little bit quicker and then it's _Oh hello, old friend_."

"Perhaps he thinks you benefit from a little reflection."

"Not a bad idea in theory, but when you know him as I do, you know he just likes to be the one in charge… if only for a little while."

"You don't sound as if you particularly care."

"Well, I love him. He's family. And we all have to love family, don't we, Miranda? Despite their flaws… or is it because of them? I never get that bit right."

"I loved my sister." The angry confession tumbled out against her will.

"But you didn't approve of her. I know how that is. My brother, well, he can be a little… righteous too."

"I _loved_ her."

"Yes, yes, you humans _love_ to mouth those words. Yet if I was to peel back that layer of skin and gaze into your brain, I'd bet every last soul that you don't truly understand it. In fact, I doubt that you even know what that word means."

"I know. And she knew I loved her."

"Did she? Then why is it she took her own life? Where was your love when she decided how to do it, when she methodically shook out those tiny pills, when she gagged down each one until–?"

"SHUT UP!"

The sardonic laughter pierced her skin, leaving behind a myriad of tiny cuts. "I think my work is done here, don't you? Now you have fun now."

"W-who are you?"

For just a second Miranda felt a presence of something… something which seemed to bore right through her, until one hand rose to her chest as if that act could somehow cover her from being stripped bare. Hesitantly she reached out with the other, the tips of her fingers barely brushing a physical substance before it seemed to sidle out of reach.

"Perhaps I'll tell you if we meet again."

* * *

"You told me _left_." Miranda's peevish tone sent a slow building rumble of laughter through the chest of the large man that she assumed was Sol.

"Because I knew that'd send you _right_. While sometimes you are quicker, predictability is more often than not your downfall."

"You're telling me that no-one chooses _left_?"

"They do."

"And…?"

"_The Pit_ surrounds us on both sides."

Miranda's scandalised gaze set off another round of laughter. Scowling, she growled, "I see you feel the need to stack the odds."

"We prefer to think of it as a safety measure. Don't need you going and hurting yourself."

"I'm dead. What can possibly hurt me now?"

The fingers which loosely grasped her elbow tightened painfully. Or what Miranda assumed would be painful had she been able to feel it, given her skin tautened and whitened where he held her.

"I hope you never find out."

"How long have I been down there?"

"Two days."

"It felt much longer."

"It does for humans. Most are unused to this kind and type of solitude."

"How long were _you_ down there?" A shrug of the shoulder and a tighter grip was a sufficient answer. "What happens now?"

"We are heading over to _Processing_. Lucky for you, your paperwork's completed, or you could've been stuck in _Admissions _for another couple of days."

"Perhaps you should lower your gaze a little more often, might learn something about efficiency from us mere mortals down there."

This time her quip did not elicit a reaction.

The clinically pallid, lifeless corridor appeared to stretch for miles in front of them. Just as the room, it appeared in dire need of decoration, here and there paint mournfully flaking off the walls.

After what Miranda estimated to be an hour of walking, they still hadn't encountered a soul. "Is this the equivalent of a red carpet? If so, tell your boss that I am flattered."

"One travels as one is judged."

"Any more fortune cookie idioms?"

His quizzical frown inducing an involuntary sigh, Miranda chose to spend the rest of their monotonous journey in silence.

* * *

"This is _it_?" Staring at a completely unremarkable brown door, stencilled in simple black with the words _Hall of Judgement 1345_, Miranda raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "What no fanfare, no angels, no…?"

"Cutbacks, Ms Priestly. Do come along." Appearing out of nowhere in the abruptly open doorway, the plump woman in her forties gazed at Miranda over the tops of her glasses held in place by a drab beige chord which matched both her clothes and the décor. As she spun away, Miranda couldn't help but note that every single strand of her steel wool hair was tucked up in a bun which aligned in absolutely perfect symmetry to either ear.

"And you are…?"

"My name is wholly irrelevant to the purpose of this visit, however, if you must be familiar, Ms Guerra will do. Take a seat, Ms Priestly."

"Your aftercare package leaves a lot to be desired."

"Well, do be certain to express your feelings in the survey. One will be made available to you within the next 3-5000 years."

"Sarcasm, Ms Guerra?"

"I am an accountant, Ms Priestly. Numbers are never taken more seriously than they are right here."

"Which is…?"

"As it quite clearly states on the door, you're in the _Hall of Judgement_. This is where the processing takes place."

Sprawling lazily across the chair, Miranda drawled, "So you're a pencil pusher. And should I hazard a guess based on my previous encounters with your like, one with a misplaced sense of power and a displaced sense of humour. Well then, I'm veritably atremble with anticipation."

Indignation swirled violet through the ice cold gaze in front of her. "That is not exactly how _I_ would refer to the person who is about to weigh and tally ever single one of my endeavours."

"You can't be serious. Do you realise I'm thirty six years old?"

"Regardless of the paltry amount of years that you've been in existence, I will be privy to your every deed, Ms Priestly. You would be wise to hold your tongue and hope that I am suddenly not error prone in my judgement."

Flipping the folder open without any visible movement, she waved a hand, a set of foot tall gilded scales materialising on the desk in front of her. Each side contained a shallow bowl, both empty, locked in perfect balance. "Now let me see, Miriam Princhek aka Miranda Priestly…" Holding her other hand out expectantly, both women waited for an instant, surprised by the size and weight of the hefty A6 sized tome which slammed into Ms Guerra's palm from somewhere up above, pinning it to the desk.

Peering over the tops of her glasses once more, the older woman's gaze sized up the tome and then Miranda, a harrumphed, "I see" her only comment as the book swung open to the first page. "Clearly, we'll be here for a while. Help yourself to coffee," she nodded towards the machine occupying the corner to the left of her, "and please, do _not_ interrupt me even if you think it is a matter of grave importance."

With that the woman closed her eyes, the pages appearing to flick of their own volition at considerable speed even as her hand stretched out in front of her, two identical stones the size of a pea materialising to hover just above her palm. With each turned page, the black or white stone marginally increased in dimension, until each one in turn grew to the size of a cherry, then a fig, a peach, an apple…

Growing bored by the spectacle, Miranda got up to pour herself a cup of coffee, spying a printed pamphlet lying there. The words '_Death: now what?'_ adorned the front cover showing a handsome, if rather pale, young man and an equally ethereal looking woman seeming… happy. Rolling her eyes, she flicked a glance behind her and seeing the considerable lack of progress being made, settled with a cup of coffee to see what awaited her in the afterlife.

After what seemed like hours and countless re-reading of the same ambiguous ten lines, the tome finally flipped shut with a resounding snap, Ms Guerra blowing out a long deep sigh, her lashes slowly fluttering until her gaze once more rested on Miranda. "Well, Ms Priestly," her lips pinched into a narrow line, "Despite the cost of your final… jaunt, you do appear to have squeaked over the line."

The stones compressed to a manageable size and floated over to the scale, each one settling on a side, creating a swinging see-saw motion. Once all the movement ceased, the white side rested just slightly beneath its counterpart.

"Then the others… in the car…?" Inhalation made impossible by a passage that had closed in trepidation, Miranda's breath stilled, awaiting an answer she had had no courage to inquire about before.

"Kade Monroe died on impact, just as you did. I fail to see what is so very unclear about why one should wear a seatbelt at all times. Jane Monroe is currently in intensive care. The others got away with concussion, bruising, and in one case, broken bones."

The tight feeling loosened imperceptibly. "Will she…?"

"I cannot say. All I can let you know is that judgements carried out here are final. Any… consequences post my decision will not be brought into consideration."

"So then…?"

"The scales, or should I say my maths, don't lie, Ms Priestly. Congratulations," a bright flash made Miranda blink, a snapshot capturing the weighting of the scale settling on the front page of her file. The woman's lips relaxed, their thinness smoothing out as she raised a stamp from a holder on her desk, "Welcome to–"

The silent whoosh of wind sent the paperwork fluttering through the air, pieces of paper scattering all around them. As they settled, a boy bordering on the cusp of teenager held Ms Guerra's hand, the stamp mere millimetres from the form.

"S-sir?" she stumbled, her face paling instantly. "I did not - - Is something the matter?"

"No, Sylvia." He flashed a charming dimpled smile. "Your counting is as impeccable as always."

Twin spots of pink bloomed in the paper-pale cheeks. "T-then?"

"Jane Monroe. Time of birth: 16:40:31, September 5th, 1955. Time of death: 19:59:45, October 10th, 1985."

"B-but S-sir, that was merely a second ago, I had already fin–"

"Of course, the fault is not your own, Sylvia. But you know the rules. If caught in time, they all count up until the stamp."

"Yes, sir," the woman dutifully mumbled as she ripped the photograph in two. "Shall I add…?"

"No, please, allow me."

"A little too young to be the supervisor, aren't you? But then upstarts like you do take this sort of work." Miranda's lips curved into smirk. "What's the matter? Mummy not let you play with other kids?"

"I like your spirit, Miranda, very commendable. _The Pit_ so often breaks the tough ones. But not you… that's good. I think there'll be a very special place for you in…"

The careless flick of fingers sent the tiny black stone sailing, the clang as it rattled on the scales sounding like an angry clamour in Miranda's head. The scales tipped and quivered, trembling precariously, as he continued, "He–"

As they stilled with a final shudder, his word died, poised smirk sliding from his lips as surely as every regained bit of colour leeched from Ms Guerra's cheeks again.

"S-sir, there m-must be some m-mistake. I will do a recount. P-perhaps there's something I've overlooked, a number I carried wrongly, a small–"

Somewhere a bell began to toll, its steady measured beat a match for the solemnly dull thud in Miranda's chest.

"No mistake, Sylvia. The bell confirms it." Both pity and excitement flashed through the boy's eyes like quicksilver.

"Well, if it isn't Heaven or Hell, I'll settle for a beach house in Hawaii…" Picking an imaginary piece of lint off her pin-striped Prada suit, Miranda casually nodded towards the scale locked in perfect balance, while inwardly anxiety viciously clawed at the lining of her stomach.

"I am sorry," Sol's voice sounded behind her, lowered in sorrow. "I told you… there are things that you cannot imagine."

Eyes gleaming with speculation, the boy regained his composure, calmly dispensing orders. "Send Gabriel to bring the last one home and call my brother to my chambers. We've much to discuss him and I, and of course," he bowed with a sardonic flourish, "with Ms Priestly, our brand new _walker_."


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** As per the prologue.

* * *

"**Death is not the greatest of evils; it is worse to want to die and not be able to."** – Sophocles

* * *

2001

"How is your steak, Miranda?"

The first precise slice merited a pursing of the lips, the oozing reddish pink prompting a careful placement of the knife and fork back to the side.

"I-is something wrong, M-ms Priestly?" The young man standing by the candle-lit table quivered, trepidation marring his boyishly handsome features.

Verbally tearing people limb from limb just for the sheer hell of it had held appeal until the early 90s. Between 1993 and1996 a vicious flaying had occasionally lifted flagging spirits. Now—now she just longed for a modicum of competence, a measure of ability to keep her life functioning at a level where she was not thwarted hourly by ineptitude.

Failure was insufferably exhausting… and she was sick of its inexorable lash.

"Do you recall exactly what I asked for?" Watching the waiter's Adam's apple frantically bob after her murmur, she feared he would either choke on his spit, snivel, or simply fall to grovel at her feet. If she was truly on her game, he'd manage each in turn. Sweeping her lashes downward to hide her glare of contempt, she surreptitiously switched mocking scrutiny from one object to another.

Stephen.

How she loathed pandering to this insipid man. Had he been privy to her thoughts on several occasions, he might have run into the night. As it was, his chest was swelled with pride, his avid gaze gleaming voraciously as he inhaled every wisp of fear like an incubus. Men like him thrived on other people's misery and for the first five years she had delighted in using them to boost herself up every rung of the career ladder. The next five she had actively encouraged them to go further, fostering deeper immorality with every step, daring… well, back in those days the depths of her depression dared anything.

Despair had ultimately bled into monotony.

The simple truth was that the jaded façade that twisted Stephen's lips with barely hidden gloating, that this young man trembled and cowered in the face of, wasn't really a mask at all.

She was so fucking enervated by existence.

"Y-you r-requested m-medium-rare, Ms Priestly." The shaky tones penetrated chronic rumination.

"Well… then I must not understand what medium rare is. After all, I do not have a cordon bleu chef on retainer. Nor do I place an order at Smith & Wollensky on a weekly basis. No… I am certain that must be a different Miranda Priestly."

The quiver of the lip far more pronounced, she watched a glassy glaze steal over royal blue. "I-I'll get another—"

"We would be honoured if you would dine on the house tonight, Ms Priestly. Please accept my most humble apologies." The dulcet tones of the maître d' pierced the waiter's stumbling prattle.

"A bottle of the 1990 Cristal wouldn't go amiss."

Two sets of lips pursed this time, the maître d's too fleeting for the human eye, or at least for one as negligent as Stephen's. Catching a glimpse of similar dissatisfaction, Miranda kept her own tightened for much longer than she had to.

Greed.

Stephen's crassness was becoming utterly unbearable.

"Of course." Bowing slightly, both men scurried away, one obviously never to return. Trying to evoke the memory of pity, Miranda was rather perturbed to find the emotion momentarily elusive. Not feeling something was becoming habit, not being able to summon it to mind something more disturbing.

These sixteen years had certainly compelled their toll.

"I hope this hasn't ruined your evening." Grasping her hand in his, Stephen deposited a brief, damp, swipe of lips against Miranda's knuckles, revulsion sharply rising in her stomach.

"I doubt anything could lower the tone." The artificial sweetness hit its mark as surely as the intended barb.

Predictably he only grasped the surface meaning.

As if on cue the opening strains of _The Marriage of Figaro_ floated towards them.

"Miranda…"

She stood up just to be perverse. With an insightful eye it took no effort to decipher the emotions on the faces all around her: jealousy, desire, hatred, rage. The elite of New York City were dining here tonight, quaffing thousand dollar bottles of champagne as they washed down hundred dollar bites of sushi, for all intents and purposes the luckiest people in the world. Yet she could not discern a single genuine smile evident between them, every rote action a painstakingly rehearsed charade.

Her gaze embraced the main perpetrator: thick silver hair professionally styled very recently, military-crisp latest Armani, a polished smile rivalled only by the shine of his Gucci loafers. Next she drank in his ostentatious offering – an eighteen carat diamond ring.

"…being my wife?"

The thunderous blast which shook the room was wholly out of place, though not as much as the exterior walls collapsing into rubble. In the ensuing chaos flames whooshed up, a roaring inferno, a ravenous colossal beast devouring every person in its path. The crackle and the searing heat inched closer, the tortured shrieks growing in volume with its glide, until its hulking mass loomed over Stephen, his jaw trapped open in a silent scream.

Blinking slowly, Miranda's lips reluctantly curved upwards at the corners, even as the panorama regained the hues and shapes of _Masa's_ oriental décor, once again crystallising into Stephen's kneeling form and expectant features.

Trust Caroline to tap into her thoughts and then project them. _Why, thank you, darling. I do so love it when you drop by for a visit. _

Her sardonic comment garnered an equally peeved, silent communication. _One more fucking hour of this shit and I'm going to make it real._

Miranda's composed "Yes" was almost ruined by a rare snicker.

* * *

"How is that cognac?" The swaying figure of her daughter clutched a half-empty bottle of the rather lower priced Jack Daniels, a burning joint dangling from her fingers.

Were she to be her actual daughter, Miranda may have been slightly more concerned by her precarious perch on the very edge of the railing. As it was, she simply breathed out, "I see you are starting early today." Cupping her own glass of _Black Pearl _protectively, she stepped out onto the balcony, her face immediately pummelled by the stinging drops of rain. Angling her face for better exposure, she closed her eyes, enjoying welcome signs of life.

"Mmm…" Taking a drag, Caroline blew out several perfect circles of smoke. "I have to hand it to you people. You make some fucking top notch shit."

"I hardly think what you are imbibing qualifies as either."

"It does the job. Some of us don't need $10,000 a bottle spirits. Although… I can only imagine anything at that price tastes utterly divine." The reedy laughter jabbed in a recurring taunt.

"You are drunk. And high." Miranda pinned her with a level stare.

"Yes. Isn't it marvellous? I'd offer you a hit but we both know that'd be a total waste of time."

"Where's Cassidy?"

"Where do you think?" Caroline jabbed upwards with her bottle. "Perfect Cassidy is delivering her perfect report."

"You didn't go with her?"

"Well, someone has to stay here and watch you, don't they?"

"You know, in all the years that we've spent together, you've never told me why you were assigned to this job."

"Don't." In a flash Caroline was just a millimetre from Miranda's face, the stench of marijuana and alcohol assaulting her sensitive nose. "I am not Cassidy. You want to bond? You do it with her. She's the one that likes you humans. Me—" descending from her levitating state, Caroline was once more level with Miranda's waist, her seven year old body at odds with the cynically spiteful smirk and the illegal substances. "I hate your fucking guts."

"Yet you hide it so well."

"Screw you."

"You are getting careless. It's not enough to look like you are seven, Caroline. You have to act the part too."

"Yes, where would you be without _pretending_?" Taking a swig, Caroline drained a quarter of the amber liquid in one gulp, wiping her lips with the sleeve of her ratty sweatshirt. "Speaking of which, sterling job on landing that pretentious asshole earlier… I've _so_ been longing for a daddy figure."

"He has connections."

"Do you even remember why you are here?"

Raising the glass, Miranda took a moment to inhale the smoky sweet fumes of cognac. For the split second in which it took to tilt it, for the liquid to reach her lips, she existed only in a cruel void of hope. As soon as she felt the first touch of the wetness, the burning sensation crushed her chest and she cursed the sixteen years of routine, the sixteen years of believing in a miracle. The tasteless mixture slithered down her throat, bitter bile her mind's ingrained response to perpetual disappointment. "Do _you_?"

Effortlessly gliding to the railing, Caroline threw her a defiant look. "Yeah, I am here to watch you. Problem is…" stepping off to hover in the air several storeys above the sidewalk, she casually flicked the butt into Miranda's drink, "I don't see anything worth watching."

* * *

"You should know I've recommended that Caroline be removed from this assignment."

Keeping her eyes closed, Miranda breathed in the lighter floral scent beneath the freshness of the pouring rain which signified the entrance of her other daughter. "Cassidy. How lovely to see you."

"Sometimes I almost think you mean that. I'm sorry about Caroline's behaviour."

"Joshua?"

"You weren't the only one that got engaged tonight."

"I see. Will she be…?"

"I cannot say. But today's events have shown once again that she is too attached."

"The lady doth protest…."

"A hazard of the job. It's rare for the _watcher_ to refrain from becoming too involved. Most of us don't last more than one or two assignments."

"Presumably you are the exception."

"There's always a special case."

"Well… here's to you being special." Taking another sip, one that she knew was liberally mixed with rainwater, Miranda tasted what she'd tasted since that night in 1985 – precisely nothing; the flavourless concoction methodically swilled before she gulped it down.

"Why is it you still drink that?"

"Is this a social inquiry or for official records?"

"Just curiosity."

"That killed the cat, you know."

"Well, then, thank god that I'm already dead."

Two chuckles rang out over the pounding of the drumming rain.

"Et tu, Brute? _He_ won't be pleased to hear you taking his name in vain. It's a shame we didn't meet back then… before… you know."

"The fact that I existed centuries before you might have put a dampener on things."

"Indeed." Pausing to consider Cassidy's question, Miranda finally offered, "Habit. Comfort. A link to former goals. I'd like to think it keeps me… human."

"Do you still remember how it tastes?"

Being dead did not preclude the functionality of tear ducts; Miranda had found that out the tried and tested way. But it was funny what it took to trigger them these days. She felt the burning at her own soft admission. "No."

As ever, Cassidy didn't mouth any clichéd platitudes. "Then why don't you drink water and pretend?"

"It's harder to maintain the illusion."

"Hmm…"

Puzzled by the unusually vague response, Miranda's lashes fluttered open to take in a pensive Cassidy, her countenance reflecting intense deliberation. "What's wrong? Does that not meet with your evaluation?"

"You always find a way to change my preconceptions."

"Glad I am keeping someone entertained."

"The time I spend with you is very valuable to me, Miranda." Just as the drugs and alcohol earlier, the deeply solemn expression appeared awkward on a child. "Chess?" Out of nowhere, the tiny redhead held up a board with all the eagerness of a real child.

"No, thank you. I thought I'd order a salad Nicoise, open a bottle of Chateau Latour, and then drift into a peaceful slumber by the fireplace."

A shadow of confusion and what almost looked like very human hurt flitted over Cassidy's face. "But you are not able to sleep… and you can't taste the other things. That's—you really wouldn't rather try and beat me?"

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Miranda sighed, tossing back the remainder of the cognac. "After I finish with the corrections on the book, you idiot." At Cassidy's blossoming smile, she groused, "I fail to see how you can read _that_ but you can't distinguish sarcasm."

"Perhaps I see the best in people."

"Then perhaps you'd care to see how I can best you?"

"It's never been about winning or losing." Pinned by the razor-sharp insightfulness which gleamed in the celestial being's cobalt eyes, as always Miranda was left feeling utterly exposed until Cassidy relented, turning away. "One day I hope that you'll understand."


End file.
